The World Still Turns
by Kimyko
Summary: A life so long cannot be what you call a life. [Crossover between Mermaid Saga and Yami no Matsuei, OC warning]


**The World Still Turns**

**Disclaimer:** It's fairly obvious that I don't own Yami No Matsuei. (This will not be on any of the following chapters.)

**A/N:** I realize that I've made myself an open target to flamers and the like since this story includes both a crossover and a character of my own. However, I'll try my best to avoid any terribly Mary-Sue like characteristics and to keep the plot interesting. Constructive criticisms are, of course, encouraged above all else as they help me to improve. As for flames, I don't particularly appreciate them, but I don't suppose I can stop them from being sent either. Anyway, enjoy.

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"She's lovely."

The silver-haired man expressed his thought out loud for the benefit of the shopkeeper beside him who, even now, was obsessively hovering around his shoulder to see which item had caught his eye. Many would have found this behaviour irritating, but not the good doctor. With the same elegant poise and debonair calm, Muraki simply flashed a charming smile towards the man as he removed the doll from her isolated position at the top of a high shelf. He took extreme care not to wrinkle the smooth fabric of her dress and cradled the figure gently in his arms, softly, as though she were a sleeping child. The tips of his pale fingers caressed her porcelain face as he admired the exquisite details making up her graceful, painted features. She really was beautiful. The whiteness of her makeshift china flesh made even the falling snow piling outside appear dirty and impure. Her hair was impossibly soft, like fine silk falling past her shoulders down the small of her back like a waterfall of black ink. However, none of these features impressed him more than her eyes. His vast collection held dozens of dolls just as perfectly formed, but none with eyes to rival hers. Crafted from the smoothest glass, the icy-blue irises stared up at him in a manner which sent the most delightful shivers down the base of his spine, unearthing those dark memories and lustful emotions that he believed could be ignited solely by his living dolls.

Reflected in the glass, Muraki Kazutaka, kind doctor and cruel murderer, could see the faces of all his past playthings, each more beautiful than the last and more fragile than even this small, porcelain girl resting in his gentle embrace. They were never quite as silent as her, though, never as still in his arms, but in the end, they broke just as easily.

"Yes. She is."

The shopkeeper's voice interrupted his thoughts suddenly and the doctor smiled. It was amusing to him how someone as pathetic as this man could stand his presence and look into the eyes of one whose hands had been permanently stained with blood without feeling even a slight twinge of fear.

"Do you really think so?" He questioned casually, his fingertips glossing delicately over the cool china as he spoke.

"Oh yes."

It wasn't a lie. While he did notice the doll's beauty, that alone could not stop the nervous shudder from running through the shopkeeper's seventy-year-old body every time he looked at her. For three generations his family owned the antique shop, and for three generations, the figure remained on her lonesome pedestal, never leaving unless to be looked over by some customer and then immediately returned. They were frightened of her, more so than most were normally frightened by dolls. 'It's the eyes,' they explained repeatedly, with an anxious shake of their heads. The eyes kept her from getting sold as there was not one person who didn't notice them. Something hid behind the girl's vacant stare, something sinister and knowing, a stare that separated her from the others in the store. The shopkeeper had never been a very superstitious man, but despite her lack of marketability, he could never find it in his heart to rid himself of the little, porcelain girl. In truth, he feared the consequences.

"And I think you'll find this one particularly interesting," he added hastily, hoping to keep the man's attention. Muraki had come in on multiple occasions to purchase things and the shopkeeper felt that perhaps he might be the one to take an interest in the unwanted figure. "There's quite a story behind her."

The doctor looked up at the old man with a spark of interest, giving him the necessary confidence to continue with his tale.

"It is said," he started, "That a young man once fell in love with a beautiful girl with whom he was engaged to be married. For a few years they were happy until he began to realize she never aged; thirty years had passed and while his hair had turned grey and wrinkles were beginning to form on his face, she was still as youthful as the day they met. Soon the people of the village began to shun them, making their lives a living hell, and yet they stayed together, loved each other regardless. However, one day the girl merely disappeared, never to be seen again. They say that she did not wish for her love to suffer her fate and left him, but for all her good intentions, he died alone. Yet before he died, he had this doll crafted, in the image of his beloved so that a part of her could always be with him."

At the story's close, Muraki could barely contain his laughter, but managed to have merely the corners of his mouth twist into a wry smile, as if he was simply mulling over the contents of the tale in his mind's eye when in fact, he was thinking of how incredibly misinformed the man was. Most men were, he noticed, especially when they clung so pathetically to fairytales of love and compassion as if they honestly believed such traits existed.

"How touching," he commented, after a brief moment of silence had passed between them. There was sincerity in his voice where there was none in his mind. The true story, Muraki knew, varied greatly from the version told to him. There was no unselfish sacrifice, just tragedies of the worst kind.

"I think it is," the shopkeeper agreed, feeling slight hope for the unwanted doll. Muraki was not a conventional man, and he took interest in things most others would not. If he was right, the doctor would be the one to give the unwanted toy a home.

"So…" he started again hesitantly. "Think you'd be interested in buying her?"

The doctor paused for a moment, looking as if he had second thoughts. His gaze drifted down toward the doll one last time to see her glass eyes staring right back at him, into him.

"Yes, I think I am." He said finally.


End file.
